


she's just like the weather, can't hold her together

by aunt_zelda



Category: Original Work
Genre: Biting, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, F/F, Fantasizing, First Time, Groping, Honeymoon, Kissing, Marriage, Masturbation, Prisoner of War, Seduction, Thunder and Lightning, Vaginal Fingering, Virginity, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25970374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: “Do you fear storms?”Sorrel shook her head.“Good. This looks to be a strong one.” Xanthia was pleased to be within this warm, solid house, not in a battered tent or a muddy field. “Have you ever storm-walked?”Sorrel blinked and shook her head again, looking confused now.“It’s a way some of my people try to be closer to the gods. They say on nights such as this, when the storms rage, the gods are closer than they ever are. Close enough to reach out and …” Xanthia reached out her hand, cupping Sorrel’s cheek. “… touch.”Sorrel’s face burned, and now Xanthia could feel it. Sorrel gulped, but she did not look away.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Warrior Queen/Her Bookish New Wife She Earns After Killing the Girl's Parents
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62
Collections: Femslash After Dark 2020





	she's just like the weather, can't hold her together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheseusInTheMaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/gifts).



> Treat for Femslash After Dark.
> 
> Prompt pairing: Warrior Queen/Her Bookish New Wife She Earns After Killing the Girl's Parents
> 
> I struggled with the names a bit, going through lists and trying to find ones that sounded good written together, I hope they're ok. 
> 
> If I've neglected any tags feel free to comment, or after author reveals message me on tumblr, and I'm happy to add more!

Her bride was quiet as a mouse. 

That was the second thing Xanthia had noticed about her, after her obvious beauty. Twice already she had inadvertently snuck up behind Xanthia, startling the warrior into readiness with a cry and a hand reaching for the hilt of the weapons she did not wear inside the house. 

Still her bride said nothing. 

She had spoken during the ceremony, a wild affair beneath moonlight and torches, Xanthia still caked in the mud and blood of the war she’d won. Her bride had spoken the words of marriage in a clear voice, nary a tremble in her tone. It was not defiance, or fear, or illness. So what was it?

Perhaps it was grief. Xanthia knew there were people to the south who mourned in silence. Perhaps that was the custom here as well. How long would her bride mourn? The thought of her bride silent in bed was repulsive to Xanthia. She preferred a vigorous paramour, and had often wrung cries from the throats of companions in her tent in encampments before battles, to their mutual delight and the amusement of her soldiers who’d been close enough to overhear. 

“Do you mourn, wife?” Xanthia asked one morning by the fire. They slept apart, yet her bride rose before her without fail and prepared their morning meal. At first Xanthia had suspected poison, and eaten regardless, knowing her immunities to a variety of poisons after years of spells and endurance, but there had been no tingling in her throat to suggest such an attempt.

Her bride tilted her head in response to the question. 

“Your parents.” Xanthia saw no reason to be artful in the discussion. She had killed her bride’s parents on the field, and they both knew that. In fact, Xanthia had nearly killed her bride, when she had stormed in at the news that a mere scholar stood between her soldiers and the castle’s library. Xanthia had found the beautiful young woman holding a knife meant for binding books, not fighting soldiers, standing between her and the treasured tomes. That devotion had enticed Xanthia: it was something she craved for herself, if the woman was willing to say the marriage vows. As fortune would have it, she had. 

“They died well.” Xanthia said at last. “They were noble warriors. Does that ease your pain?”

Her bride processed that information. She shrugged a shoulder. 

Xanthia glared down at the meal. It was good food, better than she ate on campaigns by far. Instead of storming out of the room in frustration, she finished the meal. 

Looking up, she saw her bride watching her eat intently. 

Curiously, Xanthia traced her tongue along her lower lip, catching crumbs. She exhaled in pleasure at the taste. 

Her bride blushed. 

Xanthia smiled in triumph. 

~*~

Xanthia knew very little of her bride. She knew her bride was no warrior, preferring the company of books and scrolls to soldiers and swords. She knew her bride was brave, as she had not trembled or fainted during their wedding. She knew her bride was dedicated, as she had stood between an invading army and a library. And now she knew her bride was attracted to her. 

That was more than enough for Xanthia to work with for a strategy. 

The house they shared was relatively small compared to the more opulent homes in the valley below. Xanthia trusted her generals and captains to manage the surrenders of minor fiefdoms while she enjoyed her honeymoon. The campaign had been long and she had more than earned time to herself. The Empress, may she rest eternally, had cautioned Xanthia to take her comforts where she could, lest she live a life of hardship without pleasure to savor along the way. Xanthia had taken her advice to heart and was wary of burning herself out on endless campaigning. 

Xanthia made as attentive a study of her bride as she would study an enemy on the field of battle. She watched how her bride moved, organizing the tomes of the house’s library. She watched with particular enjoyment as her bride bent at the waist to pull volumes from the floor, and the skirt of her dress rose up, exposing her shapely calves. 

Her bride was wearing a new garment today, with a neckline that plunged deep. As her bride reached and moved about the shelves, the fabric pulled over her body, accentuating her body’s curves. 

Xanthia savored the quiet of the day. Campaigns were loud, arduous affairs, not only the clash of battle itself but the arguments of generals in conference, debates about tactics, negotiations for supply trains, and diplomatic bickering over treaties. Her army was strong, but it was also a chaotic mess of bodies and needs and responsibilities. 

Watching her bride bring order to the chaos of the library was soothing in a way Xanthia had not anticipated. She dozed in a chair by the window through the afternoon, musing on her bride’s delicate fingers. 

Towards the evening, her bride moved to leave the room. Xanthia reached out and let her hand graze over her bride’s hip. 

There was a pause. Her bride hesitated. 

Xanthia smiled and turned to the window. It looked as though a storm was rolling over the mountains. 

~*~

By dinner, the trees were rustling outside with the promise of rain. They ate together, thunder starting to rumble beyond the windows. 

Xanthia audibly enjoyed the food, smacking her lips and licking her fingers. It was a tactic she had used before to make an opponent underestimate her, assume her to be a barbarian of little skill. Here, it was a tactic with a different goal in mind. Every movement was tracked by her bride. Particularly deep moans or long licks of fingers elicited blushing and subtle shifting of her bride’s body. She seemed to be clenching her legs at times. Xanthia ached to know what those legs would feel like clutched around her instead. 

“Sorrel.” 

Her bride jolted.

“Have I said it right?” Xanthia had worried about that. They shared a common language, but not a culture. 

Sorrel nodded, lips briefly pressing together. Had she been about to speak? 

“Do you fear storms?”

Sorrel shook her head. 

“Good. This looks to be a strong one.” Xanthia was pleased to be within this warm, solid house, not in a battered tent or a muddy field. “Have you ever storm-walked?”

Sorrel blinked and shook her head again, looking confused now. 

“It’s a way some of my people try to be closer to the gods. They say on nights such as this, when the storms rage, the gods are closer than they ever are. Close enough to reach out and …” Xanthia reached out her hand, cupping Sorrel’s cheek. “… touch.”

Sorrel’s face burned, and now Xanthia could feel it. Sorrel gulped, but she did not look away.

Xanthia used her left hand to trace along Sorrel’s collarbone, which had been so recently laid bare by her choice of attire for the day. “This gown … I like the way it fits you. You should wear others like it.”

Sorrel nodded as best she could, with Xanthia’s right hand still cupping her chin. 

Xanthia wanted to pull her bride close and have her, here, on the dinner table even.

Thunder cracked outside, the lightning flashing close and blazing through the window. The two sprang apart, and it was as if a spell had been broken. Sorrel quickly retreated to her room for the night. 

Xanthia went to the cushion where her bride had sat during dinner. She traced her fingers over the fabric and felt a damp spot. Lightning flashed outside and Xanthia smiled in triumph. 

~*~

The next day her bride’s dress had a neckline that seemed fit to rend at the seams, and a skirt which exposed a portion of her calves even when she stood upright. 

Xanthia watched, openly, as Sorrel made the morning meal, bustling back and forth from the kitchen to the table with steaming mugs of tea and bowls of food. The food was as delicious as ever, but she barely tasted it. She wondered how sturdy the table was. Xanthia wondered if it would support her bride’s weight if she shoved the food aside and had Sorrel spread out on the wooden panels. 

Her bride was flushed with color for the entire meal. Xanthia considered this a promising sign, but did not declare a victory yet. 

Xanthia left the house to walk the grounds, observing the damage from the night’s storm. A few trees had fallen, there was a significant hole in the roof of the woodshed, and she could see the storm clouds rolling over the valley still. There was a pleasant tang in the air, a familiar freshness that came after rainfall. Xanthia breathed deep and savored the quiet. Perhaps her bride had the right of it, to enjoy the quiet as a peaceful, meditative practice. 

At the thought of her bride, Xanthia turned back for the house. 

To her surprise, Sorrel was not in the library. This was a first: her bride spent as much time as she could within that room. 

Xanthia searched the small house, stopping at the door to Sorrel’s room, the smaller room set beside the largest bedchamber of the house. 

Noises were filtering out from the room: pleased, luxurious noises, the sorts that Xanthia was familiar with from others, but had yet to hear from her bride. 

Now she heard them. Yelping cries that were increasing in intensity the longer Xanthia listened. 

She could imagine it of course. Sorrel, tangled in her bedsheets, those delicate hands that were so gentle with books, stroking herself to heights of pleasure. Xanthia bit back a moan of her own with difficulty. She leaned against a wall, her hand reaching down and teasing herself with sensations, as she listened. 

With a great cry, her bride came, followed by heavy breathing as her heartbeat slowed to its normal pace. 

Xanthia smiled in victory, and left the house to go chop up one of the fallen trees. She had much to consider. 

~*~

For the next three days, Xanthia chopped the fallen trees into kindling. She did this in full view of the house’s windows, specifically the window to the library. 

Every day, her bride vanished to her own room. Every day, Xanthia heard her cries of pleasure from the other side of the wall. 

Xanthia was not being celibate during her wait. She pleasured herself frequently, either listening in the hallway to her bride’s moans, or later in her own bed in the evening. It helped that Sorrel had been wearing shorter, tighter gowns that accentuated her body’s natural shape. Xanthia had never been envious of cloth before, but she was now. 

Fortunately, the perfect opportunity arrived in the form of another storm. It wasn’t as powerful as the one earlier in the week, but that made it ideal for Xanthia’s purpose.

“I’m going to storm-walk.” Xanthia announced, during dinner. 

Sorrel looked at her, glancing at the window. Lightning was distant over the valley, and thunder could be heard even within the house. 

“Will you …” here Xanthia hesitated in her phrasing. She could order Sorrel to accompany her. But she wanted to know if her strategy had worked. “… will you join me?”

Sorrel froze, hand halfway to bringing a piece of bread to her mouth. Xanthia had never been inclined to artistry, but she suddenly desired the skill to sculpt an image of her bride. 

Finally Sorrel nodded, glancing at Xanthia from lowered lashes through the rest of the meal. 

Xanthia stopped sorrel when she reached for her cloak on the way out. “We’ll soak through. Best to leave the heavy cloak behind.” Often storm-walkers went naked to show their devotion, but Xanthia kept that information to herself for tonight. 

There were crystal clusters at intervals along the path, which drank up the sun of the day and generated a dull glow in the evening. It was enough for Xanthia to see her bride’s face, reach out and steady her as she stumbled over a fallen branch, notice Sorrel’s blush as Xanthia did not let go of her hand after she had recovered her footing. 

They came to an overlook, seeing the valley stretch out before them. There were a few dull pinpricks of light from the crystals on the winding path below, but those in the valley itself had been swallowed up by the dark of night and the thick storm clouds. 

“Perhaps this is what the gods see,” Xanthia mused, tracing her fingers up Sorrel’s arm. “When they look down upon us.”

Sorrel shivered, though it was difficult to say if that was in response to Xanthia’s words, or the chill of the rain that had drenched her clothing. The fabric clung to her skin now, which had been exactly what Xanthia had hoped for from this venture. 

“I think I know how they feel,” Xanthia continued, shifting to stand behind Sorrel and bringing her arms around Sorrel’s waist. “Looking, watching, wanting …” her hands reached up and cupped Sorrel’s breasts.

Sorrel gasped, but did not pull away. 

“I think they feel powerful.” Xanthia said. Her hands stroked over Sorrel’s skin, over the wet fabric clinging to her body. She found one of Sorrel’s nipples and worked it between thumb and forefinger, smiling as this elicited a delicious whimper from Sorrel’s mouth. 

Xanthia pulled Sorrel flush against her, reaching down to yank at the rain-heavy skirt and skim her hand along Sorrel’s thigh and between her legs. She was warm there, a harsh contrast to her chilled extremities. 

“I heard you,” Xanthia admitted. “I heard you crying out. Why didn’t you call for me? You could have summoned me in an instant.” 

Sorrel began to rock back and forth, trying to follow the rhythm of Xanthia’s hand between her legs. “I … I …” 

Finally, she spoke! Xanthia stayed quiet and patient, straining to hear. 

“I wanted … you to … take me.” Sorrel groaned, reaching up to put her hand over Xanthia’s left, which was still stroking her breast. “I wanted to … entice you.”

Xanthia felt heat curl in her own belly. This was more than she could have hoped for. “That pleases me greatly, to hear you say that.” She pressed a kiss to Sorrel’s neck. “I’ve half a mind to have you here, in this storm.”

Sorrel whimpered. 

“Perhaps later. For our first time … I would have you in a bed.” Xanthia turned Sorrel around and pulled her into a deep kiss. 

It was clear that Sorrel had little to no experience in such a thing, but she more than made up for it in enthusiasm. Xanthia held her at the waist and by the hair, and Sorrel’s lips eagerly met hers. 

A sudden clap of thunder far closer than before startled both of them apart. 

Sorrel was smiling and looked dazed, like when a soldier had been struck on the head. 

Xanthia smiled in return and held out her hand. “Let’s go home.”

~*~

They left their boots by the door, and Xanthia removed her belt and knife. She pressed Sorrel against the wall, running her hands over Sorrel’s ass. After a playful slap, she took Sorrel by the chin and turned her so they were face to face. 

“Which room?” Xanthia asked. 

Sorrel blinked in confusion. “You would let me decide?”

“You deserve a place of your own, where I cannot go.” Xanthia waved a hand at the window, to the valley below. “There will be more campaigns, wars, and I will have time to myself. I will not intrude upon your space unless you welcome it.”

Sorrel considered this. “Very well. Thank you. Your room?” her eagerness had not dimmed in the slightest. 

Xanthia led Sorrel into her room. 

She’d dreamed of this, and dreamed in daylight of it countless times. Seeing Sorrel, still soaked by the rain, shifting from foot to foot, standing before her bed, roused strong passion within Xanthia. She would have to be cautious, lest her passion overwhelm her wisdom. Xanthia wanted to bring pleasure to Sorrel, not harm her. 

“Have you ever …?” Xanthia suspected, but she had to be sure. 

“No, no one else, never.” Sorrel shook her head. 

“Good.” Xanthia breathed out on the word. “I have much to teach you. Things you cannot learn from books.”

Sorrel looked briefly offended. “I learned a great deal from some of those books! That was how I learned to pleasure myself!”

“I am glad of that,” Xanthia said soothingly. “But nothing can truly prepare you for this. Now, you must speak. Tonight, you must tell me what feels good, so that I will do it again and again.”

Sorrel nodded eagerly. Then she began to undress, flashing an attempt at a coy smile as she did so. 

Xanthia watched with delight as Sorrel bared herself. Her breasts were as Xanthia had imagined, though the nipples now were somewhat reddened from Xanthia’s ministrations on the overlook. She had a thatch of hair between her legs, as was common in this culture Xanthia remembered. Though she was visibly eager, her nakedness seemed to make her shy again. 

Deciding to put her bride at ease, Xanthia stripped herself quickly. Sorrel’s eyes drank her in, darting from muscle to scar to tattoo in wonder. 

“What … what comes next?” Sorrel asked hesitantly. 

Xanthia sat on the edge of the bed and patted the spot beside herself. “Join me.”

Sorrel did, shivering as their thighs grazed each other. 

“Would you like to touch me?” Xanthia asked. “Or should I continue to touch you?”

“Um …” Sorrel licked her lips. “Could we … do both?”

Xanthia nodded. That was the best way. A lover who did all the work had her place, on campaigns especially, after hours of lifting weapons when Xanthia wanted only to lie back and let the pleasure roll over her like waves in the ocean. But this was not a campaign, and Xanthia wanted to make Sorrel moan again. 

They kissed again, and this time Sorrel was more confident. She squirmed and half climbed onto Xanthia’s lap, still kissing her. 

Xanthia shifted and settled her knee between Sorrel’s legs and began to rock it back and forth. 

Sorrel moaned as their kiss broke, looking down in surprise as Xanthia’s leg moved. “Oh that’s … that’s …” she pitched forward suddenly and kissed Xanthia’s neck. Her teeth grazed Xanthia’s skin. 

Xanthia cried out more in shock than pain. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she assured Sorrel, when her bride looked up with concern. “It feels good. Keep going.”

Sorrel bit into the soft skin of Xanthia’s neck, tongue lapping at her flesh and teeth scraping over the sensitive spot. 

It was somewhat juvenile, where Xanthia had come from, doing this instead of kissing, bragging about how many marks you could raise on another’s skin before they cried for mercy. Here, in bed with her naked bride, it was deeply arousing. 

Xanthia fell back onto the bed and Sorrel followed her. Sorrel clutched at Xanthia’s breasts, squeezing just a bit too hard. 

“Lick your fingertips, then again …” Xanthia suggested. 

Sorrel did so, pinching Xanthia’s nipples and wincing in sympathetic pain. 

Xanthia shifted her knee up and smiled as Sorrel seemingly lost her concentration and began to groan with pleasure. It was a sweet picture and Xanthia wanted more. She began to formulate a plan. 

“How you touch yourself … would you try that, on me?” Xanthia suggested. 

Sorrel tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Yes. I’ll try.” She laid down beside Xanthia and frowned in concentration. “The angle is different but …” she traced two fingers along Xanthia’s belly and skimmed down along her thighs. “Tell me if I’m doing something wrong.”

“I will, I promise.” Xanthia doubted Sorrel could do anything wrong now, even ghosting her fingertips along Xanthia’s skin was exhilarating. 

Sorrel’s fingers were hesitant, fumbling. Despite her eagerness it was obvious she’d never touched someone else in this manner. Xanthia parted her legs and shifted her hips up to accommodate Sorrel’s movements. She was clumsy, but that was probably more due to her own nerves. 

“There … a little … no, not quite. The left, and then back …” Xanthia groaned as Sorrel brushed a particularly sweet spot. “Good, good! Again, just like that!”

Despite her inexperience, Sorrel proved a fast learner. Perhaps all those books had taught her more than Xanthia had anticipated. Soon she felt pleasure thrumming within her, each of Sorrel’s gentle strokes bringing Xanthia closer and closer. It was maddening, to be so close to the edge, but Xanthia tried to be patient. 

“More … more pressure, faster …” Xanthia arched up and gasped. “Ahhhhh … I’m close, I’m close … don’t stop … _please_ …”

Sorrel curled her fingers unexpectedly, a look of fierce concentration on her face. 

Xanthia came, reaching out to grasp at Sorrel’s arm. Delighting in being in a home instead of a campaign tent, she moaned openly, savoring the sensations as her body rippled with the aftershocks. 

Sorrel made a soft sound and Xanthia looked, seeing that she’d dug her fingers into Sorrel’s arm a bit too roughly. 

“I’m sorry,” Xanthia said at once. 

“No! No it’s … I like it?” Sorrel sounded surprised. She traced her own fingers over the fresh marks and made a pleased sound. “You enjoyed it when I … bit you. Maybe this is like that?”

Xanthia smiled. “I think so. We’re well matched. I enjoy bestowing and receiving sensations like that.” She turned over fully, laying a hand on Sorrel’s leg. “May I taste you?”

At first Sorrel looked confused. “But you’ve already kissed me,” she began. Then realization dawned. “Oh! I’ve only … I’ve only seen pictures, in books,” she blushed deeply. “Can you breathe, and do that?”

Xanthia laughed. “You won’t smother me! Have no fear.” She patted Sorrel’s hip. “Get yourself comfortable. I might be down there for some time.”

Sorrel arranged the pillows behind her back and spread her legs. She looked excited and still somewhat concerned. 

Xanthia shifted up and put her hands on Sorrel’s thighs. “Relax,” she murmured, stroking along the muscles she could feel holding tension. “And tell me if anything hurts, or you wish me to stop.”

Sorrel nodded. “I will. I promise.”

An echo of what Xanthia had said before. She kissed the inside of Sorrel’s thighs – first the left and then the right – and then began to probe inside her bride with her fingers. 

Sorrel was pleasantly vocal, refreshingly so after some disappointing partners in Xanthia’s past. With Sorrel there was no sense of restraint, of holding back potentially embarrassing noises or genuine expressions of enjoyment. 

The sound Sorrel made when she first felt Xanthia’s mouth on her, was one Xanthia would treasure forever. It was a sweet, stuttering cry Xanthia wanted to invoke again and again. 

“There! Please … _please_ don’t stop …” Sorrel sounded strained, near tears even. She reached and managed to tangle some of her own fingers in Xanthia’s hair. “It’s … it’s so good … I can’t …” 

Xanthia flicked her tongue and let her teeth gently graze Sorrel’s most tender spot. 

“Oh … oh … oh! _Oh_!” Sorrel wailed. 

Xanthia felt her bride’s body quivering. Smiling in triumph, she sat up, openly licking her lips. 

Sorrel looked as wrecked as she’d sounded during the experience. She had a soft smile on her face, and some of her hair was stuck to her forehead from perspiration. 

“You’ll have to teach me how to do that,” Sorrel said. “So I can do it to you in return.”

Xanthia felt a surge of arousal in her once more. The idea of Sorrel crouched between her legs was an enticing one to be sure. “Later, yes. I look forward to those lessons very much.”

Sorrel smiled and splayed out on the bed. 

Xanthia pondered suckling more marks onto Sorrel, perhaps on her thighs, before sleep. 

“May I … stay the night?” Sorrel asked. There was some of the old shyness in her tone. 

“You may. And you may stay any night, unless I am ill or too wounded.” Xanthia traced her fingers over Sorrel’s arm. “Thank you for going storm-walking with me.”

Sorrel smiled. “Thank you for taking me.”

There was a double-meaning there, one Xanthia wished to sink her teeth into. Perhaps she would, tomorrow. 

Xanthia rose from the bed. She wet a cloth in the basin by the door, cleaning herself and then Sorrel of most of the sweat and slick on their bodies. Then she doused the lamps and crawled into bed, pulling Sorrel close and finding the best position for lying tangled together. Sorrel laughed, shifting to try and help, and settled with her face resting against Xanthia’s shoulder. 

One thing was for certain: Xanthia’s bride would no longer be as quiet as a mouse.


End file.
